


Phil

by atsuyuri_sama



Series: And I Must Scream [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Chronicles of Narnia in the narrative, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, Language, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Unbeta'd, abusive!papa Coulson, bibliophile!Phil, minor Agents of SHIELD spoilers, poetry in the narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atsuyuri_sama/pseuds/atsuyuri_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting free took Phil more innovation than most ops. It was the promise of his team at the finish line that kept him going. As the months go by, it continues to affect him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Code Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d been home free for 67 hours. That was how long it took for things to sink in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place before the events in either Tony’s or Thor’s sections. Like Thor’s, this can be read without knowledge of the other two, though understanding of the tone of the series is helpful. Also, all poetry and literary excerpts found in this two-shot are owned by their respective authors, and not by me – I’m only using them as props in my fic.

It happened on his couch, while he was trying to distract himself with meaningless television – because Tony was an extravagant giver, so everyone had their own _floor_ instead of just their own room. And it came _with_ furniture; that they were his favorite kinds were probably at the intervention of the sweet Ms. Potts. And of course, the whole _Tower_ was supplied with a quality television package.

Phil had finally got some hours to himself, after nearly two and a half days of being coddled by his surprised, relieved, desperate team. He’d been looking forward to just relaxing mindlessly on the couch in his living room, maybe read some from the various collection on his bookshelf, or watch a movie. Just letting go.

But with how he’d been surrounded by ‘normal’ agents of SHIELD – who didn’t know him (personally) from Adam – for the last couple of months, to escaping from an agency that specialized in subterfuge, and then going to being nearly smothered by people who actually knew and cared for him in the last couple of days… The promise of peace and quiet, of feeling like he could close his eyes and relax, without being watched every second, crashed over him without warning.

His breath seized in his chest, and he blanked out, heedless of a concerned voice overhead.

**-AIMS-**

At the end of the day, Phil was only human. He strove to show those he was in charge of that he had a calm that could not be rattled, but it was mostly for their benefit. Depriving himself of the human act of reaction was, sometimes, more than he could handle. Breaking down after a particularly bad op (alone, alone, preserve his image) was not uncommon.

And while the members of the Tower didn’t begrudge him his panic attack, he could still see the moment when they all – except for his two specialists, because he was their years-long, one-time handler, and they _knew_ him in ways no one else did – realized that he wasn’t infallible. Wiping the sweat off his face, a faint tremor still in his hands, he was ushered down to the communal floor.

Phil really hoped this wouldn’t undermine his authority with them. That was the only reason that the Director had let him get away with running off like he had. Without that up his sleeve…

He was tugged out of those panic-inducing thoughts by a worried, observant Clint gently pulling on his shirt. He was more grateful for the archer than anyone would ever know, perhaps save Clint himself.

**-AIMS-**

 “Coulson. Phil, look at me,” a familiar voice begged.

He couldn’t focus.

“Master Clint, is there any way I may be of service?”

Everything was twisted and unreal; the frenetic energy of his body paramount to everything else.

“No, JARVIS,” the same voice sighed. “I’ve got this. I know how to talk him down. Same way he does me. I’m thinking small pieces, less to focus on while panicking.”

**-AIMS-**

Curled up on another couch, this time surrounded by various bodies and warmed by human presence, Phil finally settled back down.

For all that they’d never come together like this – outside of battle – the entire thing held a sense of familiarity and companionship. It was comforting. Watching through suddenly-sleepy eyes as Thor and Tony good-naturedly fought over what the team would watch on the ‘tiny theatre-box’, curled securely into Clint’s side, Phil knew that this – this feeling of family, that he’d been missing since his timid mother died when he was nineteen, since _always_ where it concerned his dead-beat father – _had_ to continue.

And he was the “agent’s Agent”, as Tony put it; he would make it so.

**-AIMS-**

“You recited enough things on long ops for me, when I can’t sit still any more. I think you’d be surprised how many I remember.

            Time is  
                        too slow for those who wait,  
                        too fast for those who fear,  
                        too long for those who grieve,  
                        too short for those who rejoice;  
                        but for those who love,  
            Time is eternity!

— That one was Henry Van Dyke. Time hasn’t been kind to you, to us. But I love you, Phil. Whatever you did or didn’t do doesn’t matter to me, same as you said to me. I’d take away the past if I could.”

Phil struggled to hear through the mush of his mind. Vaguely, he recognized, if not the words, then the cadence and tone. He wished he knew who was speaking.

**-AIMS-**

When the movie ended, the bowls of popcorn were all empty, and the team was immersed in a rare feeling of ease and contentment, Phil slowly sat up. His movement drew curious, lazy eyes, and he chose his words carefully.

“I liked this,” he announced, and was pleased with how shoulders eased and faces lit up. “And for once, you all got together and did something without metaphorically going for one another’s throats.”

He wasn’t doing a thing to hide his intentions or the direction of his demands behind clever words. If he’d wanted to underhandedly manipulate them, he could have – but they didn’t deserve that. Not if they were willing to work according to his wishes… and his ‘death’ had shown him they were. His team was more alert now, ready for his ultimatum, and ready to take it on, if it seemed needed. He was so proud of them. They wouldn’t obey him _just because_ , but neither would they fight him on this if it was reasonable. They would try to be the team he knew they had the potential to be.

“You are a team, and as much as records show you got together and acted like one when—when the Chitauri finally arrived,” Phil winced as he reworded his praise, the point still too raw for them all to look at too closely just yet, “… When there is no threat, you all seem to forget what the word ‘team’ implies. This – this right here – _this_ was good. _This_ was being a team, and living together, and getting along. So this is what I propose, as the handler who knows best.”

Clint, as predicted, snorted at the tone and reference, easing the group of tense superheroes. Steve straightened up, making a show of listening without actually meaning to _make a show_ of it. Tony in turn made a show of _not_ listening, as he messed around on his tablet, even when Phil knew him well enough to know he was actually as all-ears as Tony Stark can be. Natasha continued to file her nails on a random knife, her eyes glued to Phil in spite of the sharp instrument. Bruce pushed his glasses further up his nose, and looked calmly at Phil. Thor eagerly sat up, ready and waiting for a new ‘quest’. Phil dropped the bomb.

“I want this to be a weekly thing. Movie night. Mandatory bonding for the team. You need it, you need each other, and it’s a nice way to spend at least two hours together in one room, without too much animosity, tension, cultural barriers, or bloodshed. I’ll leave it up to you to agree on a day of the week, and a way to pick out movies and snacks, but it _will_ happen.”

Phil was pleased with the varying levels of surprise he’d managed to place on each and every face.

**-AIMS-**

He had no concept of time. The male who was speaking had, at some point, wrapped himself around Phil, speaking softly in his ear. The effect was something that tugged at his memory – something about hearing it _right there –_ and he strove to be more present.

“How about this, part of a Byron piece. It’s even ironically suited to me.

            Think’st thou that I could bear to part  
            From thee, and learn to halve my heart?  
            Where were thy friend—and who my guide?  
            Years have not seen, time shall not see  
            The hour that tears my soul from thee.  
            Ev’n Azrael, from his deadly quiver  
            When flies that shaft, and fly it must,  
            That parts all else, shall doom for ever  
            Our hearts to undivided dust!

 

“It’s okay. You’re here, and safe. Just as safe as the Avengers – who came together under _your_ name, you know – can make you. Come back? It’s okay…” the voice muttered, and Phil could tell that – though they were silent – there were others in the room as well.

**-AIMS-**

Amazingly, the team had stuck around in the living room for another half an hour, in spite of their usual allergy to spending time with one another, and the fact that the movie was over. Phil wasn’t going to delude himself and pretend that he and his recent panic attack had nothing to do with it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t something that brought warmth to his chest.

When Clint got up – the last, besides Phil, himself – Phil stiffened. Clint’s green-hazel eyes rolled, and he snapped out a hand to haul Phil to his feet. Without letting go, he pulled Phil after him into the elevator.

“Your floor or mine?”

“W-what?”

Clint’s expression softened, and he smiled gently. “You had a panic attack, Phil. It was short, but it was _real._ I’m not leaving you alone unless you outright _tell me_ that’s what you want.”

**-AIMS-**

“You’ll be familiar with the concept in this one,” Clint hummed in his ear.

With every word that the archer spoke, Phil grew more and more aware.

“It’s by Lowell, from Present Crisis,

            Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,  
            In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;  
            Some great cause, God’s new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,  
            Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right;  
            And the choice goes by forever ‘twixt that darkness and that light.

“Because you’re always trying to do what’s right, even if it’s a difficult decision.” Clint’s hand was steadily rubbing circles into Phil’s back.

Convulsively, Phil’s hands tightened where they’d gripped Clint’s forearms, and he blinked the darkness from his eyes, surprised (and yet not) to find the rest of the Avengers ringed around them in a loose, worried semicircle. Clint leaned away from Phil, just enough to catch the agent’s eye over his shoulder, and prompted carefully, “Phil? You with us?”

“… Clint?” His voice was rough and whispery, his throat protesting the tightness that panic had induced.

A small smile bloomed on the archer’s face, and he nodded. “Yeah, man. That was some panic attack, huh? Wanna tell me what it was for?”

“How long?”

“Don’t worry, Agent Coulson,” Steve spoke up, shy and cautious, “JARVIS only just called us; it was a quick one. We didn’t see much at all – Barton was closest. He was the one who got here first.”

“Phil?” Clint prompted again.

Phil hid his face in Clint’s shoulder. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be happening, but… Well, losing control wasn’t _normal_. He needed the contact, and Clint didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m… here,” Phil allowed, muffled. He was more grateful than ever that his specialist could read him so well, because he didn’t have to clarify. Clint nodded, pulling him gently to his feet and slowly ushering him, and the team, onto the communal floor, maybe for a movie.

“Yeah – we’ve got you, and you’re not going anywhere you don’t want to. You’re here.”

**-AIMS-**

They’d chosen to use Clint’s floor, because it was just above Natasha’s, while Phil’s had been a last-minute add-on, and so was at the bottom of the Avengers-stack in the Tower line-up: too far away.

Curled up in Clint’s huge king-size bed (because apparently, if Stark could pay for it, Clint wanted to live in the luxury of a decent bed all to himself, something he had been long-denied), tucked beneath the covers, and being spooned (for once) by Clint, Phil felt exhaustion falling on him. He sighed, and twined his fingers with the calloused hand that lay across his stomach. Clint squeezed gently.

“You okay?”

“Mm,” Phil hummed hesitantly, too relaxed to look for words in spite of his minor discomfort.

“I’m not leaving,” Clint repeated.

Phil was glad that the younger man didn’t seem like he would tire of saying it any time soon. Though he wasn’t surprised: with their line of work, and his own past, Clint was no stranger to the needs of someone thoroughly shaken by reminders of the past. Clint sighed gustily, and with more than a little affection in his voice (and a touch of understanding), he offered, “Want me to talk until you fall asleep?”

“Yes, please,” Phil whispered, flushing.

“Alright. Let’s stick with poetry, since it’s rhythmic. We’ll start with Browning, I think.

            Day!  
            Faster and more fast,  
            O’er night’s brim, day boils at last;  
            Boils, pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim  
            Where spurting and suppress’d it lay—  
            For not a froth-flake touched the rim  
            Of yonder gap in the solid grey  
            Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;  
            But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,  
            Till the whole sunrise, not to be supprest,  
            Rose, reddened, and its seething breast  
            Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.

“Do you remember?” Clint whispered into the hairs at Phil’s nape, “That was the first poem you ever read to me? After I woke up in Medical for the first time and wouldn’t sit still, when your usual books took too much of my concentration to bother with?”

Phil was already asleep.

(His things would migrate pretty quickly to mingle with Clint’s over the next few weeks. Both would be glad that none of the team ever made a big deal out of it.)


	2. Agent Alert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Doctor Doom attacks, and the Avengers have to take him on because the Fantastic Four, Phil gets kidnapped. He was _born_ to be an agent – blanking out was never an option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The huge block of text in _italics_ is Phil’s memories. It is an involuntary reaction to torture – his mind trying to escape the pain – and as such he has no control over them. They are in no particular order. I do my best to leave little clues to indicate when a particular memory is, but it’s generally supposed to be a confused jumble.

Phil Coulson was no stranger to dangerous situations, nor was he unfamiliar with the pastime known as kidnapping – all from outside-op, inside-op, kidnapper, and kidnapped perspectives, too.

He never enjoyed seeing a kidnapping, though being part of the operation trying to undo it often helped. Without a job to do, he either had to turn away or allow his mind to be consumed with the various scenarios of what could happen. Most of them were bad. At least if he was part of the op, he could force himself to focus on his job, could convince himself that (maybe) if he did his job well, everything would turn out alright.

It was even worse going in, if he _knew_ that a kidnapping scenario was on the horizon, that the op _called_ for it, that it wasn’t just a reactionary operation. Because then, job or no job, he had the time before-hand to worry. And even if he didn’t, chances were that at least one person he knew and cared about was going to be on the inside of that kidnapping. An inside-op kidnapping just ate at him, if he wasn’t right there to oversee everything.

Depending on who he was being charged to kidnap, on the other hand, occasionally made the exercise bearable – even fun. Skye, for what it was worth, was an amusing target. She was so sure that her equipment and her ties to Rising Tide made her invisible… and she’d been so _shocked_ when they pulled a bag over her head and dragged her away. She didn’t fight, and her interrogation was informational and satisfying. Not all targets or missions were as light-hearted or easy; Phil wasn’t bent on being a pathological kidnapper, anyway.

The last time he’d been a victim of kidnapping had been… oh, _years_ ago; he was still just a junior, Level 3 agent. He’d proven himself good enough to bypass the Level 1 and 2 recruits, and he’d been so cocky with his perceived success that he’d let it get to his head. His handler had been displeased when she pulled him out. She’d never let him forget it, even though he’d taken the mistake as a personal slight, and begun to cultivate the flawless ‘Agent’ persona that he now wore.

Being kidnapped for the second time was no more fun than before. In fact, this time – in spite of his knowledge on how to escape traps, learned because of that infantile slip – Doctor Doom was _overestimating_ his abilities, if anything. Phil would have to rely on outside help to get out of this one.

Phil hoped his team would hurry up.

Three hours in – he was only being tortured because Doom was _angry;_ the bastard didn’t actually _want_ anything _–_ Phil slipped. His training had prepared him for enemies that would use pain and torture to get information they wanted; he was prepared to wait it out, and keep his mouth shut. But being beaten just for the sake of pain wasn’t something that he was equipped to handle – it was too much like his childhood, too little like an op gone wrong. So when Phil slipped, it wasn’t into desperate begging for release, or stolid silence against information gathering, it was into his own head. Into whichever memories caught his subconscious’s attention quickest.

Phil really, _really_ hoped his team would hurry up.

**-AIMS-**

_He was in the Helicarrier, facing down the world’s first evil to merit a meeting of superheroes, with a gun whose properties even **he** didn’t know. Then the shocking heat of a blade sliding seamlessly through his breast consumed his attention, the slick slide of blood pouring quickly and unstoppably down his chest a minor tickle in the background of his disintegrating thoughts._

**~**

_He was Mommy’s little man, and doing what he had always done: hiding when Daddy got mad._

_Mommy was nice, and warm, and soft. When he didn’t feel good, she holded him and singed to him and called him sweetheart and tried to hide him from Daddy. When the house was empty (locked, Daddy always locked the doors, and Mommy didn’t have a key), they mostly had fun. Mommy taught him how to cook, and how to clean, and it wasn’t fun but it wasn’t hurtful; how to count, and how to read, and that was fun ‘cause he got to help Mommy more and more that he knowed; how to tell when it was a good night, or a night for hiding, and if it was pretend it was fun but it wasn’t when Daddy was home._

_Daddy was big, and loud, and hard. When Daddy came home, Mommy told him always and always that he had to be quiet and be hidden. Daddy didn’t like **loud brats bangin’ ‘round this damn dump all the time, Mariam!** He never had fun with Daddy, but sometimes – if he was bestest at being good and Daddy was drink-sleepy – sometimes Daddy would pat him on the head, and make funny noises ‘fore snorin’. It was nice ‘cause it didn’t hurt, and it was the only time a Daddy-touch didn’t._

_Now was a night for hiding. Daddy was mad (Daddy was always mad; sometimes he just didn’t yell with it). Mommy was crying, and bein’ hit, and had lots o’ blood comin’ out; Daddy was screaming, and stinky like smoke and bad things, and makin’ things go crash; and he was hiding in the closet, hands over his ears as tight as they would go, trying-trying so hard to be good for Mommy and not make a sound._

_~_

_He did his job as he always did, with the utmost efficiency. He was a master manipulator – no one else could have gotten through to the stubborn kid Barton used to be, or eased Romanov enough to work at least with he and Clint. In comparison, it was too easy to pull these four (five) together._

_The team he built was the best… and more than that, if push came to shove and he had to ‘disappear’ himself from the prying hands of SHIELD, they would be able to continue functioning together flawlessly, once they knew one another. That was the beauty of enforced teamwork, compatible personalities, and the compassion that comes with working unimaginably close in a small group. They proved his hopes on their **second mission** , even, when the Bus was hijacked. He was so proud._

_Heart aching for his true team, he stayed with this new one, built them up, made them better, patched the broken pieces with all the patience of a saint – because no solid reason to run yet had occurred (he knew better than to listen to **only** his gut feelings except in a fight); because he was still adjusting to a body without his old muscle-memory; and because if he fled too early, they would know what he was up to and he’d never have another shot._

**-AIMS-**

When the team finally cracked Doctor Doom’s hiding place, out-gunned his numerous Doombots, and located the room where their handler was being held, Phil was long-gone: unresponsive, glassy-eyed, pale, and trembling. All sense of decorum fled the team as a whole.

A suddenly-furious, incautious Hulk grabbed Doctor Doom and shoved the masked man up against the wall, effectively getting the super villain out of the way. Iron Man had flanked the green rage-monster, in an attempt at keeping the damage to a minimum; upon seeing the Agent, he let the proverbial leash go without remorse. The armor’s faceplate lifted when he got close enough to Doom (pinned chest-to-knee by Hulk’s two giant hands), and Tony stared coldly at him for a long moment.

“We were going to tie you up and leave you for the Fantastic Four to handle,” he admitted softly. It was clear that Doom was beginning to realize just what kind of mistake he’d made, if the choked whimpers were any indication. “It wouldn’t have been too much trouble; they were coming back to the States by tonight. Besides, you’re their arch nemesis, not ours. But then you fucked with our handler.”

Silent as a cat, the huge figure of a Norse god sidled up beside Tony. Tony grinned viciously at Doom – when Thor was controlled enough to will his tall and muscled self _silent_ like that, he was _pissed._ Thor casually palmed _Mjölnir_ , and even Tony had to shiver at the aristocratic sneer of a prince forced to recognize the scum beneath his boot.

“No one,” Thor growled, “may harm the Son of Coul while I or my shield-brethren draw breath, lest our eyes come to rest on them. You, foul maligner, have sought our attention, and so gained accordingly, it in all its righteousness. This thing will not be so quickly forgiven or forgotten as deeds past. Pray to your gods, while you yet retain thought, because _we_ have _no_ mercy to show you.”

He may or may not have understood the whole of the one-sided conversation (the verdict was still up on just _what_ the Hulk internalized from being part of Bruce), but the green figure snorted disdainfully, shoved Doom further into the wall (mindless of the squeak it produced), and nodded forcefully. “Agent _ours._ Doom no nice, Avengers no nice worse.”

While Tony, Thor, and Hulk dealt with Doom, on the other side of the room Steve, Natasha, and Clint crowded around Phil. With all the care of those who have seen worse, and understand just what could go wrong, Natasha and Clint pulled Phil down from where he’d been hung from the ceiling while Steve hovered helplessly in the background.

Once he’d been looked over for injuries, and found well enough (under the circumstances) to be moved, the two assassins alerted their teammates. Steve rushed ahead to go prepare the Quinjet for transportation to the Tower, and Tony left Doctor Doom with a scoff, to his fate at Thor’s hands. It was surprisingly quick work to convince Hulk to back off because they needed Bruce ( _“Nice-suit need puny-Bruce. Thunder-loud smashes Doom. Hulk understand, Star-man.”)_

Flipping his faceplate back up, he snapped to JARVIS to have the Medical wing prepped and ready, even as he ushered a quieting Hulk onto the jet. Thor would return under his own power. Momentarily, Tony was jealous that the other was getting to exact the revenge that they all wanted. But then he caught sight of the bloodied, still form on the stretcher, Natasha’s clenched fists, and Clint’s pale, super-focused eyes, and his stomach sunk.

Phil needed them there right now, not doling out meaningless vengeance.

**-AIMS-**

_How he got off of Asgard and back to earth, he had no idea._

_He’d woken up thinking he’d spent the last couple of months recovering in a boring grass shack Tahiti. The doctors had questioned him extensively – he had, at the time, only assumed they were making sure that his records from Tahiti were up-to-date, and thought nothing of it. The fact that his body had been reconstructed from the ground up, by spells and healers, after the lingering effects of Loki’s attack had ruined his body, was not supposed to be something he knew._

_That didn’t stop the fact that – once he’d fallen deeply, naturally asleep for the first time in months, cocooned ‘safely’ in his home – he woke up with the forbidden memories. His training kicked in, and he recognized the tests of the previous day for what they were. He was instantly on guard, and with a little bit of ingenuity (and a liberal use of his for-all-intents-and-purposes ‘new’ body: faster, stronger, painless, and essentially newborn), he found SHIELD bugs in the home that was supposed to be safe and private and **his.**_

_Realistically, he knew that they would be tracking him, in case of damage or trouble. It was still something else to see it, to understand it was happening. He felt rubbed raw by the agency that had taken him in when he needed a family to turn to, betrayed and yet still stuck to their whims._

_The Director elevated him to Level 8 clearance, and demanded that he make a new team, to head the search for super-powered individuals, right away. He agreed as easily as he ever had, but inside, he was crying out, demanding that he get a chance to see to his team._

_He needed to see the Avengers, make sure everyone was okay, check them over just like he checked Natasha and Clint after any hard op. They’d told him yesterday that everyone still thought him dead, and it was better for team morale if it stayed that way, still gave them something to fight for. He had his orders, even if he didn’t like them and was growing to dislike the place they came from._

_In the only way he could rebel, without pinning himself down as a threat to the agency (because they obviously considered his memories a threat, between the inquisition and the house-bugs), he took to answering the question of Tahiti with only one very key phrase._

_“It was magical.”_

**~**

_Mother died in the middle of his freshman finals. He got a call from the police, but he missed it because of the test. The voicemail said she only had a little time left, she was in bad shape._

_By the time he got it, and drove like a madman the twenty minutes to the hospital, her room was being emptied._

_Apparently his father had pushed her into the street in a drunken fit of pique. A semi got her. The police had all the evidence they needed, and he was being charged with first-degree murder and a lifetime sentence._

_He never got to say goodbye to her (he never **wanted** to say goodbye to **him** ). It was horrible, but at least he didn’t have to worry about his father hurting anyone else ever again._

_~_

_The first time that he saw the Mandarin on television, he got a bad feeling._

_When the most recent victim was confirmed as one Happy Hogan, and Tony’s face was splashed across the screen, he knew that the time was coming._

_Thinking, even for the few days it took the news to confirm that they’d been mistaken, that Tony was dead had been some of the worst days of his life. **If Tony was dead,** his brain hissed, **then how much of a chance did the others have of surviving in time for you to find them and bring them back together?**_

_But Tony survived. The Mandarin died. And he decided it was time to start packing and planning._

_The fact he was sure that the other Avengers were moving into the Tower – there was no other explanation for the reports that Romanov and Barton had **both** gone AWOL, signs pointing toward Stark’s place – might have had a little something to do with his final decision._

**-AIMS-**

Between the readings that Bruce got, and the readings that JARVIS’s monitors picked up, they were able to deduce that Phil had lost a fair – though not lethal, or even particularly dangerous in and of itself – amount of blood, had been severely beaten, was showing symptoms of shock, and was ultimately unresponsive, with glassy eyes and shallow breaths.

In the medical wing, they hooked him up to an IV drip, and tended to his wounds. The longer he went without acknowledging them, the more edgy everyone got. Finally, with all the wounds cared for and as much damage-control had been done as could be done, Bruce took a deep breath, and declared that Phil was officially in shock.

“His respiration is still too quick and shallow, he’s got the shakes in spite of the room temperature, his blood pressure is worryingly low, and this blue tint to his lips is not bruising. He doesn’t have any internal injuries – thank God – but that means the reasons for his shock are few and far between,” distractedly, Bruce ran a hand through his sweaty curls as he struggled to pinpoint the cause of Phil’s distress, and remove it so the man could recover.

“It was probably a reaction to the situation,” Natasha offered, eyes flinty and furious. “I know the signs of a bad childhood – I was _raised_ to recognize weakness in people – and over time I noticed he had quite a few. They were small, and easily over-looked as a whole, but they were there. And if you’ll notice: when we showed up, all Doom was doing was hitting him. He wasn’t demanding a single thing.”

She let that hang in the air, and the others slowly bristled as they caught her drift.

“It was a reaction to the situation,” Tony mumbled numbly. “It was more than a panic attack, and less than a response to any actual injury. Like the Alerts.”

“Damn it all!” Clint hissed, standing beside Phil and holding one of his hands, the archer’s whole body vibrating with the need to burn off angry energy and unwanted thought. He hated being helpless, and it didn’t get much more helpless than watching someone fight their own demons.

“Your method of easement – the reading of poetry to the Son of Coul – assisted before. Why should a similar thing not work to sooth him, in this?” Thor rumbled, pained blue eyes flickering between Phil’s still form and Clint’s wrecked expression. Hope lightened his pale eyes, and he fled up the vent without another blink in Thor’s direction.

For a moment, everyone was at a loss. Tony, edgy and desperate to do something productive, tracked his progress for the team to see. They all watched as he descended into he and Phil’s bedroom, arrowed for the bookshelf, and then shimmied back into the vents.

A banging in the vents overhead physically heralded Clint’s return. It seemed he’d taken Thor’s suggestion not as an insult, but in the spirit it was meant: cradled in one arm he carried a large, yellowing volume. Immediately, he moved to Phil’s side again, and flipped open the book. His mellow voice began to float through the silence of the sickroom, every word carefully enunciated, along with a faint rasp as his calloused finger trailed slowly over the page.

“This is one of your favorites, Phil – CS Lewis. But you’ve gotta be here to hear it, you know. It’s _The Magician’s Nephew_.” Clint coaxed gently.

As Clint began to speak, loosing himself in the feel and memory of the words more than the page itself, and also to his concentration on their handler, Steve quietly placed a chair behind him, nudging the backs of his knees to get him to sit. Slowly, everyone but Clint – still reciting – and Bruce – around for medical reasons – vacated the wing, with a strict promise from JARVIS to alert them all at the first sign of waking.

“Chapter one: The Wrong Door. This is a story about something that that happened a long time ago when your grandfather was a child. It is a very important story because it shows how all the comings and goings between our own world and the land of Narnia first began…”

**-AIMS-**

_He timed it well; he had to. Too soon, or too late, and – well, this was a haven of spies and information-gatherers. Any suspicious activity, and he’d have a dozen agents after him before he could blink._

_He was done being dogged by SHIELD. He was finished being a lackey. He was tired of being tracked because they were afraid that he would one day learn that he wasn’t even in the same body he’d been born in._

_And – according to the news: about the Mandarin and AIM; the reappearance of HYDRA; the issues of golems and giants appearing on earth, as an extension of problems on Asgard; and the ‘disappearance’ of Natasha, Clint, and Bruce off the SHIELD radar, maybe seen around Stark (the Avengers?) Tower – his team was reassembling badly, and needed him. He had to go._

_So he left his crack team of superhero-detectors to work for themselves, and arrived a couple of weeks later on Stark’s doorstep. For records’ sake, he claimed to be sent by Fury when the man grew too frustrated to deal with the Avengers’ and their personal problems._

_Everyone knew that was a lie, considering that the Director had been unable to directly contact any of the Avengers since Tony got wind of Coulson’s possible survival and cut off all contact with the lying one-eyed man. But it was necessary, and Fury later contacted Phil himself, with a quiet thanks and approval disguised behind a heavily-worded rebuttal. Phil nodded politely, and then blew him off. He only worked for SHIELD in the same capacity that his team did._

_He didn’t tell them everything (in fact, he told them very little). It was stupid that he was constantly looking over his shoulder, for the day when SHIELD would try to out-power his team and get him back. So he worried alone, and surrounded himself with his lover, his friends, his team, and it was as good as circumstances allowed. They were just happy he was alive, and – quite frankly – he was, too._

_~_

_“Please awaken, Son of Coul,” a warm voice urged. “The spells have been completed – we now must witness that your mind has not been subverted by your body. Awaken now, Son of Coul.”_

_He stirred with a groan. His body was stiff, as though he’d not used it for far too long._

_He was in a strange room, naked beneath a strategically-placed sheet, and being prodded by a tall young man in loose, Asgardian garb. A magician, a healer. As the man helped him to sit up, he saw through a glassless window a sight he’d never expected to see: a long, straight road of nearly-opaque material, both pearly and iridescent. It was badly splintered at the far end – like a shattered stone. The Rainbow Bridge (or, if Dr. Foster had her way, the Einstein-Rosenberg Bridge)._

_“That is good… Be at ease, Son of Coul. All will be well,” the Healer soothed._

_Under the Asgardian’s direction, he was run through his physical paces, testing muscle tension, joint rotation, ligament stretch, bone density, and things that – still too hazy to do more than obey simple orders – he didn’t recognize._

_~_

_He’d graduated to Level 6 clearance a while back, when he came across the nineteen-year-old, desperate street assassin. Defiant, green-hazel eyes glared up at him from where he’d snuck up on the kid perched on a cement roof ledge and flipped him over, pinning the kid on his back and the wiry archer’s arms trapped beneath his knees._

_“You here t’ take the sniper out ‘fore I take out my target?” the kid spat._

_“On the contrary, Mister Barton, I am here to make you a deal,” he smoothly interjected._

_“Oh?”_

_“I work for an agency called_ Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division _. T_ _hat agency has had their eye on you for some time – your aim and ability, especially at your age and fiscal means is nothing short of incredible. I am here to see if you are amiable to joining us. If not, we will of course leave you as we found you, to your own devices; but if you agree, we will provide all amenities in exchange for working for us.”_

_Those piercing eyes drilled skeptically into his face as one dirty-blond eyebrow lifted. He lifted his own in mutual challenge. Testing the waters, slowly he pulled away from where he’d pinned the kid. Immediately – as he knew Barton would do, as anyone with self-preservation instincts would do – the kid leapt up and rolled away, the set of his shoulders defensive._

_“And if I say you’re a lyin’ bastard? What’cha say t’ that?”_

_He sighed in amusement, and reached into his suit jacket. He froze when a gun was pointed unerringly at his forehead. “Easy, easy – I’m just getting a business card. I’ll move slow. Easy, now.” Inch by inch, he withdrew his hand, a small white card caught between his first and middle fingers. He extended it for the jumpy kid._

_A slender, oddly-calloused hand flashed out and snagged the cardstock. The kid’s brows furrowed as he slowly looked over the words, his mouth moving as he… sounded out the words?_

_“… Puh-il Ko-u-lis-on?” Barton hazarded cautiously, stumbling over the letters._

_“Phil Coulson, actually, but yes.”_

_Barton flushed brightly, looking away, and mumbled softly._

_“What was that?” he inquired politely, maintaining his Agent calm._

_“… can’t read,” Barton mumbled, ashamed. “You sure your agency wants an **idiot?”**_

_He felt his eyes widen. “Just because you can’t read doesn’t mean you’re—”_

_“I’ve **tried!”** the kid cried out. “I just can’t do it! I’m stupid; everyone can read!” He ran out of steam abruptly, wearing a bitterness that seemed well-worn on his face. “Does your agency know they’re tryin’ to recruit a retard?”_

_“Obviously,” he tried to reason, “you don’t need to read to be an ace-shot. **That** is what my agency and I are looking for. How literate you are is of no consequence.”_

_Barton’s eyes shuttered with distrust. “Whatever, man. Look, I got a mark I gotta make if I’m gonna get paid t’night.”_

_The sniper tried to push past him, and he reached out to grab the stiff shoulder. “Just one more moment of your time, please, Mister Barton? I really need to get back to my boss with a definitive answer, you understand.”_

_Perhaps it sounded a bit more confrontational than he’d intended. Whatever it was, suddenly he found himself once more facing down the barrel of a rock-steady gun._

_“You’re not gonna force me int’ somethin’! I’ve already been there, done that – for too many people, for too many reasons, ‘n’ been told to kill too many people in the name of business.” Barton snarled, his expression was suddenly that of a cornered animal._

_He knew the expression well, and was prepared to see Barton’s trigger finger tighten. Before his consciousness could catch up, he’d already relieved Barton of his weapon and tried to pin him again. This time, the kid was ready, and a silver flash in the calloused palm was warning enough. He leveled his gun and squeezed the trigger, deliberately aiming for a nonlethal shot._

_Barton’s face paled, and he bit his lip so hard it bled, in time with the hole in his right thigh. Immediately, he was on the ground next to the kid, pulling away the knife and slipping out of his jacket, using the material as an impromptu compress. He smiled lightly, trying to ease the tension between them, and quipped, “Well, if you were so against the matter, you could have just told me ‘no’ from the beginning, Mister Barton. You’ll be alright, though – I’ll see that I get the medical bill, considering it was my fault you were shot in the first place.”_

_He thought about it for a second, and then added, “And even if you say no, I’ll still pay for it. It would be rude to leave a fellow business man unable to work, when the accident is laid entirely at my feet.”_

_Barton looked at him with wide eyes, and in that moment, he suddenly looked his true age and so very young – nothing at all like the trained killer he’d been moments ago. “I—I don’t…”_

_“Understand?”_

_“No,” Barton whispered, agonized. “What do you **want?”**_

_“Well, Mister Barton—”_

_“Don’t!” the kid interrupted. “Don’t call me that. ‘Mr. Barton’ was my father, and then my brother. I’m nothing like them. Don’t call me that.”_

_He nodded. “Very well, Clint. What I want is simple: I want you to join my agency, where your skills will be put to good use and you will have a reliable pay check, food, housing, and chain of command instead of this risky street business. Barring that, I want to at least make sure that by the time I leave you, the injury I’ve caused you does you no detriment in a world that is already against you. That is what I want, no strings attached.”_

_Barton fidgeted, wincing as it pulled at his wound. He gently patted the boy’s shoulder. “It’s alright. You don’t have to decide right now: I’ve got to get you to Medical. As it is,” he mused with a grin that was only met with bewilderment, “this was probably for the best. You’ll probably feel better making a decision once you’ve had a chance to see us from the inside, anyway.”_

_As the helicopter that he’d discreetly signaled once Barton had gone down arrived, he gently hauled the spindly kid to his feet, supporting most of his weight. He smiled down at his companion, and murmured, “Don’t worry; it’ll be fine. I’m a very respected senior agent, and if I’m vouching for you, not even the balloon-headed new recruits will dare to touch you. I think you’ll fit in just fine, though. You’ll see. Specialist Agent Barton has quite the ring to it, doesn’t it?”_

_And for the first time, he got a tentative smile in return, even as red spilled out onto the concrete beneath them. “Maybe, sir. Maybe.”_

**-AIMS-**

“… can get back,’ said Uncle Andrew, ‘if someone else will go after her, wearing a yellow ring himself and taking two green rings, one to bring himself back and one to bring her back.’” A voice was dictating slowly, precisely.

Phil was cold. His teeth began to chatter horrendously the minute he pried his jaws apart to make a sound. The reader immediately went silent, and then there was a sense of movement, and Clint’s voice cautiously prodding, “Phil? Are you with us? Can you hear me?”

A warm, calloused hand squeezed his own encouragingly, and a set of footsteps hurried close. Bruce’s voice sounded from Phil’s other side, and a blood pressure cuff was adjusted on his arm. “Agent Coulson? Can you open your eyes for me? You’ve given us quite a scare, you know.”

A whine filled the air, and it took Phil an embarrassingly long time to realize _he_ was the one making that noise. Clint’s thumb rubbed the back of his hand in circles, and he hummed, “I know, I know: you feel like crap. But we’re making sure you get better. You went into shock; the disorientation is expected.”

As Phil slowly reordered his brain and the world around him began to make more sense, he cracked his eyes cautiously open. Somewhere in all that, the rest of the team had entered the room (or had they _all_ been waiting like that, for him to wake up?), and he glanced at Clint, the closest and most comforting sight.

“… h’pned?” he slurred through his chattering teeth.

“You were caught by Victor von Doom,” Tony offered quietly, his voice like iron.

“Indeed, and we caught the scoundrel attempting to assuage his frustrations on your person,” Thor added, expression grim. “Fear not, shield-brother, for we did teach him the error of his ways.”

“Whatever he did,” Bruce took over (and Phil wasn’t born yesterday – even as groggy as he was, he knew what someone looked like when they were trying to hide something), “by the time we got to you, you were pretty banged up, and deep in shock. That’s why you’re so cold: your body is finally registering the last of it. You’ll be fine, though – JARVIS and I have a good handle on things.”

The others loitered for a bit, obviously relieved that Phil was okay, and just as obviously trying to hide it. They still weren’t used to caring so strongly as a whole for someone. One by one they left, laying a hand on his knee or his wrist or his ankle as they left, reassuring themselves. Bruce decided to leave Phil to recuperate in silence, leaving the monitoring to the Tower’s faithful AI. Natasha brushed a hand through his hair, and gave him a knowing look before sweeping out of the room.

Steve stalled, and then awkwardly patted his foot and offered, “You know, Phil, we all have a difficult time of things – it’s practically a prerequisite that you have a difficult past before you can join the Avengers… If you ever need to talk, any one of us will listen.”

And then it was just he and Clint.

“So, boss man. He hardly touched you, compared to some of the shit I’ve seen you take over the years.”

“Not… not now, Clint. Please?”

“Okay,” Clint acquiesced surprisingly easily. He threaded his fingers through his hair, and sighed, “At least promise that you’ll tell me someday? Or tell _someone?_ I was scared when you didn’t respond, Phil. Even during a panic attack, you made noises, you subconsciously reacted to stimuli… You were like a shivering corpse. I didn’t like it.”

“… Every one of you suspects, huh?”

“Well, what do you think, Phil? Four of six of us were abused as kids; five of six of us have seen the horrors of war; four of six of us – five if you count non-permanent instances – have had our bodies completely altered, most against our will. We’re an eclectic group, particularly sensitive to the plights of others, if only because we’re all so screwed up ourselves. So yes, everyone suspects, and guess what? No one thinks any less of you for it, either.”

“Yeah.”

Clint’s eyebrow rose in silent question, and Phil winced, and clarified, “Yeah, okay. I promise I’ll… talk to someone. Can’t guarantee it’ll be you, but… I’ll talk.”

Clint fingered the open pages of the book in his lap, avoiding Phil’s eyes. Finally he managed softly, “Where did you go?”

“Old memories. First time we met, cooking with my mom, finishing school as a kid. That’s all.”

“Alright. Hey Phil?”

“Mm?”

“You know I love you, right?”

“Love you, too, Clint. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“… I do. I don’t like that me.”

“I _am_ sorry for that. If I’d known…”

“I know. Wasn’t your fault. Get some rest.”

“… ’Kay,” he muttered reluctantly.

Clint smiled, the first expression of contentment on his face since Phil woke up. He eyed the book and then Phil knowingly. “Want me finish chapter two first?”

Feeling like a child asking for a bedtime story, Phil blushed, but nodded anyway. He was rewarded with a kiss, and the slow, resuming cadence of his lover’s warm voice recounting Polly and Digory’s adventure into the Wood Between the Worlds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, Clint’s commentary near the end of the chapter is his _own_ belief about his _own_ intelligence – it is not a belief I myself hold about any person who is illiterate, for any reason; nor is it a belief that _he_ holds about anyone other than himself. In Clint’s case (though at the time of his statement, he didn’t know it), his own troubles stem from an undiagnosed learning disability, which I plan to cover later in the series.


End file.
